Viva Milano

Here we are, back in Milan for the third time within a year. It’s funny how familiar you can become with a place after only visiting a couple of times. We stayed in the same hotel for our first two visits. We’re in a different hotel just across the street this time only because of an availability problem with our first choice. We know where the grocery stores are in the neighborhood, we know how to buy tickets and ride the trams downtown to the Duomo, and we eat at the same restaurant just down the street nearly every night. You know what they say – if it ain’t broke…

I must admit, Milan did not make a good first impression on me. I found it loud, abrasive and dirty. However, after a few days, its charms began to grow on me. Like, the way everyone (especially older women) fuss over my son. The simple beauty of the food. The gorgeous stands in the street markets and the impeccably dressed men and women everywhere you look. Seriously, I can amuse myself by checking out women’s footwear while riding on the trams. Milan may be an industrial city, but it’s definitely not without style. I find myself considering more closely what I wear here. I know I’ll never pass for a native Milano, but hopefully I’m not immediately labeling myself an American tourist.

Because I am such a terrible traveler when it comes to flying, I never take the risk to eat aboard a plane. Just in case. The last thing I want to do, in addition to desperately trying to divert a panic attack, is to end up making a fool of myself by accidentally blowing chunks all over the person seated next to me. This means that once the wheels of an overnight flight to Europe finally touch down, I am famished. Today was no exception. We landed in Milan around 9 a.m., and I realized the last solid food I’d had was a bowl of cereal prior to our original departure from Indy nearly 18 hours earlier.

After we’d grabbed a cab to our hotel and ditched our bags, we were off in search of sustenance. I’m not sure what the basic Italian breakfast is; we’ve only ever partaken of the luxurious hotel buffet for our morning meals. This standard European-model continental spread consists of all manner of pastries, yogurt, fruit, cold cereals, breads, and a selection of cold cuts and cheeses. This morning, we weren’t checked in in time to enjoy, so breakfast ended up being coffee and croissants at a café around the corner. The croissant could have been better, but it must be said:  When it comes to coffee, Italians know their shit. The cappuccinos, lattes and espressos here blow away anything you’ll find at Starbucks or anywhere else in America.

After that, we hit up the grocery to restash our toddler snacks. I love wandering the aisles of the Italian grocery stores checking out the endless varieties of pasta, olive oils and what have you. Still hungry, I ended up eating a few of Michael’s rice cakes and cheese back in the hotel room. My usual lunch when we’ve been here consists of a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Again, when you’ve found something you like so much, why not stick with it?

Along those lines, we are loyal devotees of Il Pavone, a small and very pink pizzeria/pasta joint about two blocks away on Viale Certosa. Hubby got hooked on this place during his first trip to Milan a couple of years ago, and the toddler and I have come to adopt it as well. The hostess, a very attractive woman named Maria of an indeterminate age, recognizes us now, and she loooooooves  Michael.

The menu is pretty vast, and full of Italian cuisine’s greatest hits like tortellini pomodoro, grilled steaks, seafood, bruschetta, and a whole array of thin-crusted, wood-fired pizzas. I’ve tried a number of items on the menu during our visits, and my favorite meal remains a big plate of the lightly dressed fusilli della casa with a sumptuous tomato/pesto/cream sauce alongside an insalata mista (mixed salad) or perhaps a plate of steamed spinach. The salad is a bowl of fresh greens, tomato slices, shredded carrot and red cabbage. You’re left to your own devices to dude it up with the olive oil, balsamic, salt and pepper on every table. Same goes for the spinach, although I like to give it a liberal dusting of Parmesan cheese as well. With a quarter liter of the fizzy, citrusy house white wine for a ridiculously affordable two euros, it’s darn near the perfect dinner in my book.

We’re set to be here for three days before heading north on the train for France. The weather looks like it’s going to pour down rain the entire time we’re in Italy, but I’m determined not to let this curtail good eating. Buon appetito!

Arrividerci, bella Italia

The last few days in Italy were action-packed! Let’s see, where did we last leave off?

On Sunday morning, the toddler and I took another spin around the supermarket of the gods to stock up for our last few days of supplies. After, we lunched at a place in the shopping center called “Risto.” I’ve walked by Risto a few times and was intrigued. As it turns out, Risto is like a very upscale cafeteria, Italian-style. Yummy! It has the first salad bar I’ve seen maybe ever in Europe, along with a whole handful of hot-food stations. Panini, pasta, soups, cheeses; you name it, they had it. And it was BUSY.

I loaded up a big bowl of salad, and not just any salad. This bar offered some definitely Italian ingredients you don’t find just anywhere – radicchio, endive, sliced fennel, cannellini beans… good stuff! The toddler and I grabbed a table and a rare high chair to enjoy. It was a great little find. And as we were eating, an old Italian man passed our table and, best I could understand, told me that my son is a very lucky little boy. NICE! I think I’m liking Italy more all the time.

Dinner at Il Pavone again Sunday night… hubby wrapped up at his show at a decent hour and we had a celebratory supper with his colleague to enjoy. Although I had pledged to try not to order the same thing twice, the fusilli della casa sang its siren call to me and I was happy to answer. A side plate of steamed spinach with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of parmesan made the perfect accompaniment. Hubby got pizza and pasta, and his colleague put us all to shame by ordering vegetable soup; an outstandingly huge bowl of seafood pasta loaded with mussels, clams and langostine; AND a pizza. Which he couldn’t finish.

When I was in Cologne, my Hoosier laundry comrade Jerry had suggested I try some limoncello in Italy. Remembering that I hadn’t yet done so, I asked Maria if she had some. Happily, the answer was yes. Out of the freezer came a tall bottle of the lemon liqueur and three chilled shot glasses shaped like little boots. Not sure what the significance of the boot was, but it sure made for an adorable presentation. She filled them up, we toasted to Jerry and sipped. The shot tasted like a lemon drop martini, a very sweet and puckery frosty lemonade with a serious kick. YUMMY. I can’t believe I waited until this late in the week to discover this little gem.

Hello, limoncello!

Monday was our one and only road trip, and although I was disappointed in the lack of beautiful Italian countryside I was hoping for, the stops more than made up for it. We grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel and then set out on our big adventure. Hubby did all the driving, thank God, because I never could have navigated the Milan traffic and gotten us out in one piece.

We stopped in Parma, home of Parma ham and a beautiful little town in its own right, and ditched the car to take a quick look around. We strolled past a picturesque cathedral and piazza, then onto what seemed to be the main shopping street. It was getting toward lunchtime, so we found a cute little cafe and ducked inside. A counter full of delicious-looking sandwiches served us well. I ate a fabulous wedge of rosemary-and-tomato-studded focaccia topped with a few thin slices of proscuitto crudo. Simple and wonderful.

The cafe housed a series of spinning hot chocolate machines just inside the front door that looked like something out of Willy Wonka. Clearly, I couldn’t say no. After my sandwich, I ordered a cup. It was insanely rich, like drinking warm melted chocolate pudding. Oh my goodness. I couldn’t even finish it. Seriously, you could serve this stuff as fondue.

magical hot chocolate machines in Parma

After lunch, we hit the rest of the drive through some side roads and vineyards (I believe this is Chianti territory), past the Ferrari factory in Maranello, and then on to Ducati near Bologna. For the non-sports oriented, Ducati makes the crème de la crème of two-wheelers. Hubby calls it the Ferrari of motorcycles. As the whole reason for our being here was a motorcycle exposition, it seemed the perfect way to cap off our trip to Italy.

We signed in at the gate and were met by our lovely tour guide, Violetta. She proceeded to give us a very informative and interesting walk through the top-secret factory (every single piece of these bikes is assembled by hand – no wonder the price tag!). The adjacent museum reminded me a little of the one at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, housing motorcycles through the years along with info on when and where they raced, along with a whole wall of trophies. I’m not really a motorcycle fan, but I still found the whole thing pretty cool. The toddler, on the other hand, though he’d died and gone to heaven! He ran riot through the whole place from one exhibit to another, purring motorcycles noises the entire time. Hubby and his colleague were as happy as two little boys on Christmas morning.

The journey back to Milan was fast, and uneventful, thank God, in spite of hubby’s pedal-to-the-metal driving style and a close call on the autostrade. I tried not to pay too much attention from the backseat. I think he said he averaged something like 98 mph the whole way. Not bad for a rental car.

Our last Milano supper took place, where else, at Il Pavone. Hubby ordered his favorite pizza salami, and I had a fresh mixed salad and a sizzling platter of sliced steak topped with mushrooms. Mm, mm good.

PDAs are de rigeur here in Italy. This is the land of amore, I suppose, but these people don’t just do a quick peck on the cheek, they nearly devour each other. I’ve seen quite a few couples out and about this week (of all ages mind you, not just the teenage variety) engaged in serious clinches. At the tram stop downtown, one such duo had their tongues so far down each other’s throats, I wanted to slip them a handful of euros and tell them to get a room.

With that said, I was ready to give Milan a big, sloppy, wet kiss and say ciao, baby. After a nine-hour flight to New York, a three-hour layover, a 90-minute flight to Indy and a 45-minute taxi ride, we finally arrived home. Not that I haven’t solidly enjoyed our trip and the food that it entailed, but I’m in the mood to cook up some of the most un-Italian dishes I can think of for the next few days. Chicken stir-fry, here I come!

The grass is always greener

I’ve been getting some comments from people about how jealous they are of our travels, which leaves me with mixed feelings. On one hand, I know that we are truly, truly fortunate to be able to visit so many amazing places, and to go so often to Europe thanks to hubby’s work. There is no way we could afford to travel like this if his expenses weren’t already being comped, and I am thankful that the toddler and I have opportunities to tag along with him as often as we do. But before you start gagging, let me mention a few of the harsher realities of these trips.

For starters, I hate to fly. Planning any trip that involves air travel immediately instills in me a slight-to-moderate sense of panic. Hubby says if he had a choice, he’d rather fly solo with the toddler than with me any day. I’m ok once we get to where we’re going, but in the days and weeks beforehand, a certain level of anxiety is always in the background.

Throw in the fact that traveling with a toddler is, at best, a little tricky. At worst, it can be a complete nightmare. Depending on what country you’re in, people may or may not be helpful. This is the first big trip we’ve taken with our little guy since he’s started walking, and trying to convince him to sit on our laps for a eight- or nine-hour flight or train ride doesn’t always go over well. Plus, he’s not been spending any time in the stroller back home, so I’m sure he can’t really understand why he has to once again tolerate being strapped back in for hours at a time. It must feel like a demotion.

When it boils down to it, the whole reason we’re here is for hubby’s work. And he works HARD. Long hours are involved. When he’s doing a trade show like this, he takes off early in the morning and we don’t see him again until dinner. Maybe. If there’s a mix-and-mingle business function he needs to attend, he may not get back to the hotel until after we’re already in bed. We’re not a happy tourist family on vacation, strolling down cobbled streets hand-in-hand. Although we do get lucky and spend an occasional free day together, and we go to bed and wake up in the same room, the toddler and I are pretty much left to our own devices. When the weather’s bad, we may end up spending an entire day stuck in a small hotel room, trying to keep ourselves entertained with music videos and German or Italian-dubbed episodes of “Happy Days” and “Spongebob Squarepants.” If that doesn’t quickly make a person stir-crazy, I don’t know what will.

For better or for worse, we’ve been totally reliant on/at the mercy of public transportation in the European cities where we’ve been. While I really like the focus on pedestrian accessibility here, it is a little bit limiting. There are buses and trams and the like, but it can be a problem at times trying to maneuver a stroller on and off the things. Many require stairs; not a possibility with a stroller.

Out of all the cities in Italy, Milan is not somewhere I would choose to go of my own accord when there are other options like Rome, Florence and Venice so nearby. I would love, love, love to take the toddler on a daytrip or even an overnight to another city, but between lugging along his carseat for the cab ride to the train station, the stroller, a suitcase, a diaper bag, my purse, and the little man himself, I just don’t see how I can pull it off. There’s no way I can juggle that amount of schwack on my own.

And just because we are away from home, we’re still slave to the toddler’s schedule. This can quickly ruin your intentions of spending an entire afternoon strolling through the Louvre, taking a day-long bus tour through the Tuscan countryside, or whiling away an evening getting looped on the local wines at a charming little enoteca. When we’re figuring out what to do or see for the day, consistent meal times and a nap have to be factored in. So if we’ve taken the tram into the inner city here in Milan, for instance, I have to make sure that I’ve packed snacks, milk and a lunch, and that we get back to the hotel in time for a nap. Otherwise, the kid turns into a complete terror and will sit in his stroller screaming while hubby and I try to “enjoy” our own dinners later in the day.

Which brings me to food. Although hubby and I are fairly good at adapting to the local cuisines wherever we are, the toddler is something of a picky eater. Buying baby/toddler food in a foreign language can be a guessing game, although the photos on the packaging are helpful when it comes to figuring out the contents. Some of the offerings are things you would never in a million years see on U.S. shelves, though. I can’t imagine feeding a baby pureed lamb, trout, rabbit or horsemeat (I kid you not), but apparently, they do here. I basically follow the guideline that I don’t serve anything to the toddler that I wouldn’t want to eat myself, and I definitely am crossing those jars off the list.

There are tons of baby-food fruit options and sweets, but I can’t locate any toddler-appropriate vegetables to save my life. Fave American standbys like mac and cheese are nowhere to be found. Instead, we’re left to try blends like ham with pasta and hope for the best. We’re also attempting to expand the toddler’s culinary horizons by offering him tastes from our own plates. This usually has not gone well, with the exception of tiramisu. He has decidedly refused many (what we consider  yummy) bites with a grimace, and pretty much subsisted on breadsticks, crackers and cheese since we’ve been in Italy. Thank goodness you can find yogurt, applesauce and bananas everywhere, otherwise we’d really be in trouble.

Also, we must always remember to request hotel staff to empty the minibar fridge in our room so we can use it for milk, and we’ve become really adept at washing bottles and spoons in hotel sinks.

So there you go. Does that mean I would rather stay home and forego these adventurous excursions because they’re a little trickier with a little man along for the ride? Of course not. Does that mean you should be jealous? Eh, that’s your call.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, here’s the food report for the past few days. We’re quickly becoming regulars at Il Pavone. With the exception of the site of the tuna/Caprese salad fiasco, we’ve eaten there every night since we’ve been here. As hubby says, when he’s coming off a long day of work and he’s tired and starving, he doesn’t want to guess whether a restaurant will be good or not. He wants to go somewhere he can count on getting a large beer and a solid dinner. I don’t disagree at all, and Il Pavone’s menu is big enough to offer plenty of options. I’m going to try to make it through the whole week without ordering the same thing twice. So far, so good.

Two nights ago, I had a simple and delicious risotto with asparagus and topped it off with a ramekin of tiramisu for dessert (which the toddler decided he liked and ate half of). I also realized that I have unintentionally ordered vegetarian dishes every night since we’ve been here. Not that I have anything against the meat, and I will probably order some at some point; the veggie pastas have just appealed to me the most.

Last night, hubby had the delicious fusilli della casa I ordered on our first visit (which may be my favorite so far); I ordered a tortellini pomodoro with a side of steamed spinach. Hubby’s work pal got an insanely good-looking lobster linguine concoction and a huge calzone. That guy can EAT. Everything went down very well. I’ve taken to all but drenching my food with the olive oil they serve on each table as a condiment. I swear, the stuff is so good, I could just stick a straw in the bottle and drink it.

Il Pavone fusilli della casa

tortellini pomodoro

lobster linguini

Online, I found an Americans in Milan club, similar to the one I’d latched onto in Cologne, and yesterday was the group’s monthly coffee get-together. I got directions and the toddler and I navigated our way there without too much problem. I’m sorry to say, it wasn’t a good experience. It wasn’t really an American group, but more of a welcome-newcomers-to-Milan thing for women of all nationalities. Which was fine. However, the women there were a much older, ladies-who-lunch-type crowd, all dressed up in their finery (thank goodness I’d worn a skirt), many wearing hats and scarves. Not really my scene. The toddler, ready to burst out of his stroller after a 45-minute tram ride/walk, ran riot through the whole gathering, effectively curtailing any plans I had of relaxing over a coffee and a chat with the ex-pats. I was lucky to get a few words in edgewise with anyone before I was off and chasing him again.

At one point, I was simultaneously trying to talk with a very kind Asian woman; hold my purse, a sippy cup and the diaper bag; and bounce the squirming toddler in my arms. Whining and wanting to get down, the strong little bugger suddenly bucked hard. I lost my grip on him and barely caught him by the leg before he plunged to the hardwood. It completely scared the shit out of both of us.

So there I am, weighed down with bags and a screaming toddler hanging upside down from my hand about six inches above the floor. In front of an entire room of snooty women, who immediately started gasping and disapprovingly clicking their tongues in a judgmental manner. The wonderful Asian lady was the only one who even attempted to help me. I lowered the toddler to the floor as gingerly as I could, picked him up firmly and hauled ass out of there. I was hyperventilating and sobbing by the time I got onto the street and, with shaking hands, had to call hubby at the show to talk me down from the ledge. For the rest of the day, I was freaked out about how close I came to breaking his poor little neck. I can’t even think about it now without wanting to vomit.

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I don’t imagine any of those ladies will be emailing to invite me out for coffee again anytime soon, though.